


Alone, Baby, There Ain't No Peace of Mind

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sam is touched that his sisters have arranged a holiday for him, and he looks forward to some time alone in an isolated cabin on Lake Superior. His only neighbor for miles is the taciturn, if incredibly attractive, Dean Johnson. Sam can't help but be intrigued by this solitary man… and with his warm personality and culinaryy talents, Sam is determined to pick away at the iron padlock around his heart.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone, Baby, There Ain't No Peace of Mind

The restaurant is fancy—warm and expensive and filled with the familiar scents of oregano and marinara. Sam knows the place is owned by an old friend of his dad's—' _friendly competition_ ', he picked up by implication—so they're getting a hell of a deal, but Sam still feels guilty. He's spent enough of his parents' money on his way through college, now they're celebrating his graduation at a place that probably costs more than his freshman year tuition. His diploma sits on ridiculous display in its very own place of honor at the head of the table. ' _Samuel Joseph Bianchi_ ,' it reads, ' _Summa Cum Laude_.'

"Come on, take them," comes Vita's warm voice, and Sam remembers he's in the middle of a conversation.

"Seriously," he says, and he can't help grinning as he stares at the ring of keys in his eldest sister's hand. "You didn't have to do this." She's shoving them practically in his face, one eyebrow quirked expectantly. Sam can see Cara and her husband Jeff across the table, both laughing at him behind their hands, mirthful eyes and mischievous smiles, so he knows there will be no help from his other sister.

"Of course we did, you twerp!" Vita's tone is warm exasperation. "How often does our baby brother graduate from college with top honors, anyway?"

"It's too much," Sam tries to explain, but across the table Cara tuts and shakes her head.

"The cabin belongs to Jeff's uncle's," she explains. "He's not using it this summer on account of business in Europe, so you're not even putting anyone out. Oh, go _on_ , Sam."

"It'll be good for you," Mom points out, ever the overprotective voice of reason. "Take all those _fun_ books you haven't been reading in the last couple years. Give yourself some mental downtime before law school grinds your brain into pulp."

"If you don't go, the full pantry we stocked will go completely to waste," Vita points out, and that's just _low_. Even if Sam could let that happen, he could never look his father in the eye again. He'd be too ashamed, and probably shunned, and he sure as hell could never set foot in the family restaurant again.

"You don't have to do anything but pack," Vita grins, and there it is, the humoring I'm-the-oldest-and-I-know-best face Sam's grown so accustomed to. "I'll drive you to the lake and drop you right at the door, Cara and Jeff will come up to visit and hit you with fresh vegetables sometime, and one of us will pick you up in six weeks. That still leaves you all of August to get your things together for Stanford."

Which does sound pretty much _completely_ awesome. A month or so to himself and nature, alone in a cabin on Lake Superior: it sounds like just the recharge period he needs before he leaves the Midwest to conquer California.

"There's a phone line, right?" he asks, tucking his napkin onto his lap as the food arrives. "You guys aren't just trying to strand me somewhere without reception to get rid of me for the summer?"

"Oh, there's a phone line," Dad chuckles. "We made them promise. Your mother will probably be calling you at least twice a day."

"Oh, _stop_ ," Mom says, rolling her eyes. "You make me sound like a basket case. Besides, it's not like I'm going to have any time for phone conversations while we're remodeling the restaurant."

Sam takes a sip of his water, and he feels a smile settle loose and easy on his face as his eyes travel the table, taking in his family. He finally caves and reaches out to take the keys from Vita's hand.

"What about internet?" he asks.

"In your dreams," mutters Cara, as everyone finally digs in to their food.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

"Jesus, Sam, what did you pack? An entire encyclopedia?" The ground they're walking is mostly empty dirt, patchy and pebble-strewn with the occasional scruff of grass. Trees line the path in every direction, mostly birch but also some thicker, leafier trees that Sam doesn't care enough to identify.

"This place is incredible!" he exclaims, because the cabin is a hell of a lot bigger than he expected. He figured on a cozy little hut, but the building in front of him is huge, with a porch wrapping around one side and a deck just barely visible in back—the level ground tapers off into a steep hill in short order, and the cabin is built right into the slope. "What does this uncle of Jeff's do anyway?"

"Top secret," says Vita. "At least so he claims. Something to do with chemistry." When they reach the front door, Sam takes out the ring of keys and stares at them, not sure which to use. Vita stops at his side and gives a shake of her head to toss dark brown hair out of her face while her hands are occupied with a backpack, a duffel and an overlarge suitcase.

"Green," she says, and Sam isolates the small silver key with the green band of rubber. "The big copper one goes to the shed out back, the blue is for the sliding door leading to the deck, and… I don't have any idea what the other three do. One might be for a boat, but the dock's empty."

"Right. No boat. Got it." Sam throws a glance around the surrounding trees as the front door finally swings open, not quite able to wrap his head around the immensity of nature on all sides. "Hey," he says, catching Vita's arm before she can go inside. "Who lives up there?" He points up the hill to the left, a steep slope bearing a thin scattering of birch trees, and at the top the rickety corner of a building with rough wood walls and a patchy roof.

"Oh, nobody," Vita says, shifting the duffel from one arm to another. "I asked when I brought the first load of groceries. Apparently it's been abandoned for years. The whole property's falling apart. Cara and Jeff thought about acquiring it, but it's a whole pile of tort liability waiting to happen."

"Why do you always have to talk like a lawyer?" Sam asks as he follows her inside.

"Just wait, sparky. You're doomed to the same fate."

"Yeah right," he grins, trailing her through a short hallway, past three bedrooms and a small bathroom and into a wide open kitchen. "I plan to talk like a normal person, even once I have a J.D."

"I hate to break it to you, but you don't really talk like a normal person _now_."

She gives him a short tour: fully stocked kitchen and adjacent living room, and the huge oak table in the corner between them that functions as a dining room. The deck opens off a sliding door from the living room, a sturdy, waist-high banister bordering it on all sides, and down a tall stretch of wooden steps there's a patch of pavement for grilling, and a smooth, packed-dirt trail down to the dock and the water. Sam can see the shed tucked away in the foliage, and there's a fire pit nearby, an enormous supply of pre-chopped firewood piled high beneath the deck.

"This is insane," he points out when they're back at the front door.

"You're welcome," Vita says with a smirk, popping up onto her toes for a hug. "Oh, fuck you!" she laughs, because it wouldn't be a proper hug if he weren't lifting her off the ground. He hears the quiet thump of one of her sandals hitting the wood floor, and finally sets her back down on her feet.

"You stay out of trouble," she admonishes, one finger pointing accusation at his nose. "And call if you need anything. Or if you get lonely. Or if you run out of things to read. I can make the drive in two days, Cara and Jeff are only about five hours south, and I'm sure Mom would _love_ to have an excuse to come up from Iowa."

"I'll be _fine_ , would you just leave already? Don't you have a deposition to take or something?"

He watches her taillights disappear through the trees then goes on a mission through the kitchen cupboards, trying to decide what to make for dinner.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

The next morning he wakes in the still-dark chill from a dream that feels too real, cloying and bitter in the back of his throat, and for a moment when he blinks awake he's completely disoriented. It's the first time in years he's had one of _those_ dreams, and the images fade quickly as he remembers where he is.

Just the same he recites the familiar mantra in his head: _just a dream, not real, nothing to worry about_.

It's barely four thirty a.m. but Sam is alert and awake now, and besides, he's got no schedule to speak of. No reason not to just roll out of bed and wander into the kitchen, rummage through the fridge to find eggs and other random breakfast fixings.

He watches the sun rise from the end of the dock, mindful of his steps in the pre-dawn haze—last thing he wants is to accidentally drop his omelet in the lake. His feet feel chilly as he kicks them back and forth in the water, and the sky shifts slowly from black to gray to brilliant pink before it settles into a pale, early-morning blue. A barely familiar face hovers at the edge of Sam's thoughts, masculine but somehow soft and too pretty, thick eyelashes and full lips.

It's nothing but fragmented memory from a dozen nonsense dreams before, and Sam lets the pleasant drift of waves across his feet wash the image away.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

There's no one around for miles, or so his sister repeatedly explained to him, so Sam is startled when he hears the distinctive sound of hammering through his open window on day three.

"Mom, I have to go," he says, untwining from the phone cord as he stands, shifting smoothly out of his sprawling seat at the table where he's had his legs kicked up for the better part of an hour.

"Right," she snorts, and even through the phone line Sam can hear the laughter in her voice as she says, "Well, you call me back when you're a little less busy."

"Love you, Mom," he says. "Say hi to Dad for me."

He pokes his head out the front door, and the echoing pound of a hammer on wood is even louder from here. The sound leads him down the front steps and up the steep hill next door, towards the supposedly abandoned property: slow careful footsteps so that he doesn't slip on the loose soil and end up riding all the way down the hill on his ass.

As he reaches the crest of the slope, he sees that the building is a house that's in even rougher shape than he thought. The roof isn't just patchy, it's sporting actual holes, plastic shivering in the wind where it's stretched across them. The walls look sturdy, but half the windows are boarded up, and of the unboarded windows not many actually have glass in them.

There's a wide wooden deck along the lake side wall of the cabin, part of it bowed at an awkward angle thanks to the forces of gravity and the downhill creep of earth beneath it. It's from the deck that the ringing pound of the hammer is coming, a kneeling figure hard at work replacing rotted planks. Sam approaches slowly, curious.

"Hey," he says when he reaches the foot of the deck's shallow steps. The greeting earns him a startled yelp, and the next fall of the hammer doesn't sound quite right—is followed instantly by a loud, "Fucking _fuck_!"

"Sorry," Sam apologizes instantly, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the man sits back onto his heels and keeps right on swearing, curses going muffled as he sticks his pounded thumb in his mouth.

When the man finally turns around, Sam suddenly forgets what oxygen is for. He's a beautiful sight, eyes green and bright and so deep Sam could trip right into them. His skin is pale, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his hair is a dusty, pale brown, styled into spikes that are slowly collapsing under a sheen of sweat. He's sucking on the end of his thumb, the digit somehow obscene where it rests against his lower lip.

Sam's pretty sure he'd remember meeting a face like this, and he can't place him—but he can't ignore the feeling that he knows this man.

"I'm Sam," he says, extending his hand as the man stands and approaches the edge of the deck. "I didn't realize I had any neighbors." He smiles instinctively, probably wouldn't be able to help it even if he _weren't_ staring at the most gorgeous face he's ever seen.

"Dean Johnson," the man says after a long pause—long enough that Sam wonders if he's being evaluated, like a potential threat. The man— _Dean_ —pulls his thumb out of his mouth just long enough to say it, and extends his uninjured hand to return Sam's handshake.

"I really am sorry I startled you," Sam offers. "Anything I can do to make it up to you? Need an extra set of hands?" He's got a couple dozen books sitting next to the couch, but not one of them is as appealing as this handsome stranger with the green eyes and firm handshake.

"No, thanks," says Dean, eyes already darting back to the work that isn't getting done. "I think I've got it under control."

There's something dismissive in his tone—a careful wall of do-not-care that washes over his face—and Sam is struck by the realization that he's supposed to think this man is cold. Terse and unfriendly and not worth his time. But Sam's got a different feeling under his skin, one that tells him there's no way he's just walking back to his own cabin and keeping his distance.

"All right, well… at least let me make you dinner to apologize for the thumb," he says. He sees a startling progression of emotions fly across Dean's face: eyes lighting up for a split second, then a cold splash of fear before the deliberately distant wall slams back into place.

"That's really not necessary," Dean hedges, and even though he looks distinctly uncomfortable Sam gives him a warm smile.

"I hope you like alfredo," says Sam, setting aside his own hint of apprehension as he turns his back on the deck and starts picking his way down the hill.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

When Sam returns a couple hours later with a bowl of linguini in each hand, he suspects that Dean is itching to send him away. He makes sure to get close enough that the smell of the food wafts in and does the convincing for him, and he can tell from the look on Dean's face exactly when the fresh, heavy scent of alfredo sauce does its job.

It earns him a seat on the stable corner of the deck, and Dean puts aside his tools to sit beside him, barely giving the pasta enough time to cool down before slurping in an enormous mouthful of noodles. The contented sound he makes is downright obscene, and Sam shoves a forkful of noodles in his mouth to cover his instant blush—the linguini is still too hot, burning the roof of his mouth as he chews, and he figures it's excuse enough for why his cheeks are red. If Dean even notices. Which he probably won't, occupied as he is with his own dinner.

So the guy likes food. A lot. Sam can totally work with that.

He's barely finished half his portion by the time Dean's bowl is empty, and the heartbroken look Sam catches on his face is comical: a forlorn stare at the bottom of the bowl. Sam does his best not to smile.

"There's more in my kitchen," he offers, and the instant brightening of Dean's expression is almost too much for Sam's heart—like an eager puppy, or a hopeful child, except for how Sam's thoughts don't really have anything to do with subject matter nearly that innocent. "I left it simmering just in case. It's really too big a batch for two people."

"You cook a lot?" Dean asks as he follows Sam down the hill, and it's the closest he's come yet to offering real conversation.

"All the time," Sam says with a smile. "Pretty much only Italian, though. I think my parents secretly want me to take over the restaurant from them someday."

"Family place, huh?" says Dean, words tinged with a hint of something that Sam can't place. He ushers his guest through the front door and down the hall to the kitchen, points to the table and then takes both bowls to the stove.

"Gino's," Sam says with a smile. He refills both bowls with generous portions. "It's in Dubuque, Iowa."

"Hey, I think I ate there once," says Dean, not smiling but coming close as Sam sets the linguini in front of him. Sam can't tell if he's bullshitting or not, but decides to accept the statement at face value.

"So did you just move in next door?" Sam asks, curiosity finally getting the better of him. "My sister said the property was abandoned. What's with the fix up job?"

"Just keeping myself busy," Dean mumbles, closing suddenly off again. Like he's got nothing else to say, or maybe likely he's got a skeleton or two hiding stubbornly in his closet, and Sam suddenly feels like an unwelcome intruder for asking.

So he backtracks and tells Dean more about the restaurant instead. Been in the family since Great Grandma Lucia opened the business with her second husband. Dad used to share title with his brothers, but he bought them out when he married Mom and the place has really taken off since she got her hands on it. Sam's taken his turn waiting and cooking and doing the books, but they were doing well enough to hire a couple more hands when he finally headed north for college.

"Thanks for the grub," Dean says when Sam sees him out, hours later and just past sundown.

"Stop by tomorrow around noon, I'll make something different for lunch."

It doesn't get him a smile, but Sam's pretty sure he sees Dean nod before he disappears into the night.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Lunch the next day is enough of a hit that he manages to entice Dean back for dinner, and when Sam pulls out two bottles of wine—a merlot and a red zin—and asks which his guest would prefer, Dean shrugs and says, "I'm more of a beer kind of guy."

Sam puts the wine away and makes a mental note to thank Jeff for the supply of pilsner on the bottom shelf of the fridge. He grabs the bottle opener to do away with his own cap, but when he turns to offer it over Dean has already cracked his own open with the ring on his right hand.

"Smells awesome," says Dean when Sam hands over a bowl of minestrone. They're the only words he says for a full forty minutes, but Sam's good at talking—fills the silence right up with stories that Dean could probably give a flying fuck about anyway, but it keeps any awkward lulls from descending. He doesn't even break his stride when he grabs a couple more beers from the fridge—their fourth round? Fifth?— and steers Dean over to the low, plush couch in the living room.

There's no television in the cabin, which feels weird. The living room seems oddly empty, the opposite wall holding a giant map of the world instead of a dark screen. Usually this is the point Sam would find something vaguely worth watching on cable—sports, sci-fi reruns, crappy movie—and wait for the right moment to make a move. It's never that hard, maneuvering from sitting at opposite ends of the couch to sitting a little closer, to dropping an arm over the back cushion, to snuggling in until he can feel a heartbeat other than his own.

But the lack of television changes his game plan a little. There's no convenient façade to mask his intentions step by step, which means it's all about subtlety if he's going to have any shot at all. Dean's hard to read when he's not groaning appreciatively over good food, and for all Sam knows he'll spook and run the second Sam makes his intentions known.

So when he sits beside his guest on the couch, alcohol already sloshing his brain a little more than he expects, Sam says, "You never did tell me why you're fixing that old place up."

And maybe the alcohol is hitting Dean, too, or maybe his full belly has made him compliant, but he fidgets with the label on the neck of his beer bottle and says, "I just needed to get away for a while." His walls are down, startling and complete, and when he raises his eyes Sam can see a broken, uneven sadness that catches his breath in his throat and drives every impure impulse from his mind.

"From what?" Sam whispers, and god but he wants to reach out and offer some sort of physical reassurance—if he saw that look shining in the eyes of someone he knew, someone who was _family_ , he would already have dragged them into a stifling hug. It hits him that he's prying and he flushes and looks away, muttering a quick rush of, "Sorry, shit, it's none of my business."

In his peripheral vision, Dean doesn't look offended. More like contemplative, and Sam can feel the heavy scrutiny burning into the side of his face. Just when he's beginning to think he can't take it anymore, Dean says, "I lost someone." Simple. Painful. So direct it hurts.

"I'm so sorry," says Sam, and his eyes burn with sympathetic tears when he raises them to look at Dean. Dean's eyes look stubbornly dry, but wide and hurt enough that Sam can tell it's nothing but a straining force of will that's holding the wetness at bay. "Can I…" Sam swallows nervously. "Can I ask who?"

Another long stretch of wondering if he's stepped too far, but finally Dean says, "My dad. He was the biggest fucking hero, you know? He died saving the world." It sounds like hyperbole, but somehow Sam thinks it's not.

He doesn't really know how to respond to the confession. He's already spent his ' _I'm sorry_ ,' and anyway how can that ever be enough? ' _Thank you for telling me_ ,' feels trite and empty and utterly useless, even if the show of trust does make him feel warm.

"Are you okay?" Sam finally asks, even though he's already got an inkling of the answer.

Dean starts out nodding, like he's aiming to reassure, except halfway through the gesture he catches his lower lip between his teeth and changes direction, shaking his head from side to side instead. "No," he says. "Not even a little." Then with a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, "Fuck, I didn't mean to tell you this."

"Well, I have an honest face," Sam says. He's kind of serious but mostly kidding, and it's enough to lighten the mood and pull them back from the edge of dark, shattered territory. Dean laughs again, and it almost sounds genuine this time. Sam watches, a little transfixed, as he tilts his head back far enough to drain the last of his beer in one long gulp.

"It's late," Dean says as he stands on creaky knees. "I should be going."

Sam follows him to the door, itching to hug him or at least give his shoulder a squeeze.

"Will I see you for lunch tomorrow?" Sam asks, and he feels desperately silly for how badly he wants the answer to be yes.

"Probably," says Dean, and his face is settled into an easy smile that makes Sam's heart flutter unevenly in his chest.

"Good," says Sam. He doesn't close the door until the dark shadow that's all he can see of Dean's back disappears up the hill.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Sam dreams again that night—fire and ash and yellow eyes that threaten to suck him in, except somehow he knows this is a dream. More, he knows he's dreamed this before, fuck, how long ago? Years, maybe. It's one of the bad ones, one that recurred for a solid week the summer after his sophomore year of college. When a bleeding young man steps forward and takes aim with an old gun, Sam's heart stops at the revelation that he _knows_ that face.

Not from his dreams. From a slowly collapsing heap of a cabin next door.

He wakes just as the man— _Dean_ , he realizes—gets thrown through the air and smashes his head against a tombstone. There's so much blood, and the air is a mess of storm and thunder—when Sam sits up in bed it takes an agonizing span of breaths to sort out where the dream stops and his quiet, normal reality starts.

He's out of bed in an instant, dragging yesterday's jeans back on in the dark and hunting for the sandals he knows he kicked under his bed last night.

The grass outside is soggy-wet with settling dew, and climbing the hill by nothing but moonlight is treacherous. But Sam can't be bothered to find a flashlight, and he can see well enough to grab for a birch tree when his foot slips, and he's up the hill fast, reaching the deck at something like a jog. He steps carefully, just in case the wood decides to give out under him, and he wastes no time before pounding on the door with a heavy fist.

" _Dean_!" he shouts, and he's probably scaring the shit out of the poor man. Sam doesn't care about that right now, of course. He's too busy trying to sort through confusion and panic and needing to be sure Dean is all right, even as his rational mind kicks into high gear and reminds him it was just a dream. Dreams don't mean anything. Even the ones that feel too real—the ones that feel like memories instead of dreams—they're nothing but imagined pictures in his head that never come to anything, and Dean's face is just a coincidence.

Something about the explanation doesn't placate Sam this time, and he doesn't breathe until he sees a bobbing light through the window and then Dean opens the door and blinks up at him, a heavy, plastic camping lantern hanging from his hand.

"Not to be a bad host," Dean says, and his voice is grainy with sleep. "But it's three in the morning, dude."

And propriety be damned, Sam steps forward into the door frame and wraps his arms around Dean, capturing him in a hug so tight there's no way he's wiggling free, in fact oxygen might be an optional part of the bargain. Dean makes a low, startled squawk at the first grabbing hint of contact, the lamp falling from his hand as Sam tucks a chin over his shoulder and holds on hard. The lamp doesn't break when it hits the floor—just keeps shining, light stretching across the deck and into the house.

Dean fidgets in his arms when a full minute has stretched by without Sam releasing him from the embrace. At two minutes he makes a resigned sound in the back of his throat and raises his arms to awkwardly return the hug. At three minutes he says, "You ever going to let me go and tell me what the hell is going on?"

Sam doesn't want to let Dean go. Now that the irrational panic is leaking out of his system he's a little distracted by how good the man feels in his arms. Sam's face is buried against his throat, and god but he smells good, and Sam would barely have to move to get his lips, his tongue, his _teeth_ on the pulse point he can feel beating _right there_.

When he pulls away it's just barely, movement tinged with a slow reluctance even as Dean cranes his head back to try and look him in the eye. Sam doesn't let him go far. It's not a well-planned move, hell it's probably not even a good idea, but Sam leans in and catches Dean's mouth in a kiss.

Dean startles to absolute stillness, which isn't really the ideal response, so Sam raises a hand to the back of Dean's neck, gentle but deliberate, and coaxes Dean closer. Coaxes him into the kiss as Sam's lips urge him to relax, to let it happen, to let him in—he teases his tongue along the seam of Dean's mouth, the swell of that obscenely plump lower lip, and for all of a second Dean parts his lips and lets Sam in.

He jerks away quickly, coming to his senses maybe, but it's a surprised enough movement that Sam holds on to the ember of hope in his chest: too sudden to be a complete lack of interest, but maybe a hint that Dean got carried away and didn't mean to let it go that far. Sam steps back, all cooperative and gentlemanly, when Dean pushes him away.

"Sorry," says Sam, but he doesn't mean it. "I should… let you get some sleep."

"Yeah, you probably should," Dean says with a harsh, off-balance laugh. He grabs Sam by the elbow and drags him to the edge of the deck, yanking him down to sit side-by-side on the sturdy, repaired steps. "But if you think you're freaking out on me and then taking off with no explanation, you're nuts."

Sam was actually kind of hoping he wouldn't have to explain. This is the part where he _does_ sound like a crazy person. No way Dean is going to keep coming over and letting Sam feed him once Sam admits he's spent his whole life having a sequence of fiery, recurring dreams—and that almost all of them feature _Dean_ in a starring role.

But then he remembers Dean opening up to him on the couch last night. He remembers the unexpected trust and he thinks, just maybe, if _anyone_ will understand Sam's particular brand of crazy it's this strange, broken man hiding out from the world.

"I have these… dreams," he finally admits. "They're nightmares, sort of, but… they feel _real_ , y'know? And it's like they're all part of the same sick story."

"That doesn't tell me why you came pounding on my door at three a.m. and looked at me like I was supposed to be dead." Which is a hell of a lot more than Sam wanted him to pick up on, but somehow he's not surprised to know that Dean can read him so transparently.

"Okay," he admits. "This part will sound crazy, but humor me. All right?"

Dean nods, and if there's a new look in his eyes, it's one Sam can't quite identify.

"These dreams," Sam whispers. "You're in them. A lot. And sometimes you get hurt. And god, _please_ don't run away, I swear I'm not crazy."

"I'm not going anywhere," says Dean, and that new intensity in his eyes is turning into something that looks a lot like purpose. "Sam, tell me more about the dreams. Have you always had them?"

"Pretty much," Sam says, but his shrug feels forced. "There's fire and monsters and… this man with yellow eyes. He's pretty much always there. And you, only I didn't realize it _was_ you until tonight. And another man. Older."

Dean just keeps staring at him with that heavy considering look, which is somehow even worse than if Dean had laughed and called him crazy. Sam watches as Dean reaches into a pocket and pulls out something flat and shiny—a glossy piece of paper or… it's a photo. He hands it over, and Sam's got just enough light to make out the image as Dean asks, "This guy?"

And _fuck_ but that's him. The man in his dreams has a beard more often than not, and the man in the photo is clean shaven, but yeah, no doubt in Sam's head. That's the other man from his dreams, and he turns a wide, startled stare on Dean. He can't make his voice work to form the question.

"That's— my dad," says Dean, voice breaking a little on the last word. "Sam, I… Fuck. I don't really know how to tell you this, but… your dreams aren't just dreams. They're visions." And sure, Sam was starting to work that out for himself, but it's different hearing someone say it aloud. Hearing Dean speak the words in that deep, authoritative voice.

"Oh," says Sam, feeling completely dumb.

"The dream you had tonight," says Dean, taking the photo back and hurriedly tucking it back into his pocket. "Tell me about it. Tell me what happens in it."

"Uh," Sam swallows hard. "It was an old one, I think. The yellow-eyed man is in a graveyard, and there's this huge tomb and an old gun and… he threw you into a headstone without lifting a finger."

For a split second, Dean almost looks relieved at Sam's description. His face goes quickly blank, though, and he says, "I don't think we're in any danger. That happened almost two years ago." Sam's pretty sure he didn't want to know that.

"You're telling me all that's real," says Sam, eyebrows so high his face is starting to hurt. "The dreams… those are all things that really happened? And who the hell are you, then? Some kind of warrior?" Because now that he's remembering enough to really think about it, it's hard to picture Dean without a gun in his hands.

Dean actually laughs at that, a soft, bitter sound that cuts through the night and leaves Sam feeling cold.

"I'm no warrior," says Dean. "I just kill things that need killing. Monsters, ghosts, demons… Me and Dad, it's what we do. What we _did_."

"You don't do that anymore?" Sam asks quietly.

"No," says Dean, and the bitterness is even more pronounced now. "I'm done. Dad stopped the Apocalypse, and all it got him was dead. I tried for a while, but… I think I've given enough."

The word 'Apocalypse' sends shivers down Sam's spine, familiar and unpleasant, and more remembered dream images trickle through his conscious mind. White-eyed demons, blood and a chasm in a chapel floor, a sky on fire and earth shaking open. He remembers waking in a cold sweat in his dorm room, remembers cracking into his roommate's stash of vodka with shaking hands and a godawful headache and thinking to himself that his subconscious mind was a twisted, unpleasant beast. Now he knows all that really happened, and it's so much worse.

"You saw it, didn't you," Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam admits. Not that he wants to talk about it.

"You okay?"

Sam barks a humorless, disbelieving laugh and says, "You're asking me if _I'm_ okay? I just _saw_ it. You _lived_ it. I don't even know how you're sitting here talking to me."

They sit together in a long silence that's easy if not comfortable, Sam's leg jittering against the ground and his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Through the silence Sam feels the distinct impression that there are still things Dean's not telling him. He briefly considers asking, but the truth is he doesn't want to know.

"Sun will be up soon," Dean finally points out. "You should get some sleep while you can."

Sam stands and doesn't want to leave, but the warm hand on his shoulder is calm and reassuring, so he nods reluctant agreement.

"Good," says Dean. "And you tell me if you have any new dreams, okay?"

"Yeah," says Sam, but what he's thinking is ' _god forbid_.'

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Sam decides to give the grill outside a try for lunch the next day, and he's just starting to think about heading up the hill to collect his wayward neighbor when Dean saves him the trouble by emerging around the side of Sam's cabin. He looks tired, shoulders hunched beneath the fabric of his t-shirt and dusky circles under his eyes that broadcast loud and clear that he didn't get any sleep after Sam finally left.

Not that Sam is surprised, in retrospect. He woke the man in the middle of the night and dredged up all the memories that Dean came here to hide from. Sam suddenly feels guilty for how quickly he fell back asleep himself, even if his head is still pounding a little, hours and several doses of aspirin later.

He keeps the conversation—one-sided though it is—deliberately light as he serves up hamburgers and baked potatoes and watches Dean dig in. Even while he doesn't talk, Dean is watching him differently today. Careful and considering, a quiet intensity that leaves Sam feeling disconcerted and caught out. Sam tries not to feel self-conscious as he kicks his bare toes out into the grass from where he sits on the edge of the pavement.

"You want to go for a swim?" he asks once the plates are clean. Feels sort of silly, but he's only got so many pretenses at activity to offer.

"Nah, I should get back to work," says Dean. He sets his plate aside and stands, wiping his hands off on his pants. He gives Sam a small smile, a little bit forced but warm just the same, and adds, "Thanks for the grub. You are a _wicked_ awesome cook."

"I… thanks," says Sam. Then, even though it sort of makes him feel like a girl, "Can I come help?"

Dean looks surprised at the question, even though it's not the first time Sam has offered. And there's that almost-a-smile again, mixed with a lightly perplexed expression as his eyebrows knit together before smoothing out along his brow.

"Better if you don't," Dean says, but he sounds almost apologetic about it.

Sam almost follows him up the hill anyway, but he feels like enough of a stalker already. So instead he lets Dean go and focuses on cleaning up from lunch.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Sam does go swimming, and reads a couple chapters out of the book at the top of his pile, and even gives his parents a call to pass the time. He still ends up staring at a clock that reads a quarter to four, with no idea what to do with himself, and the fidgeting, undeniable urge to head next door and see what Dean is up to.

He figures the trespass will be more readily accepted if he comes bearing gifts, so he throws together a pile of sandwiches to bring with him.

He's surprised at the silence as he climbs the hill, out of place when he's expecting the familiar rhythm of nails pounding into wood, or the slice and buzz of a saw.

There's no sign of Dean on the porch, although the porch repairs themselves are almost finished and the whole thing looks nearly stable. No sign of him when Sam circles the periphery either, plate of sandwiches balanced in one hand. He doesn't get an answer when he knocks at the door, but it's unlocked so he steps inside. Should maybe feel worse about the uninvited invasion, but he's got faith in pastrami to conquer any annoyance the trespass may cause.

The 'house' is only one room, small and crumbling; 'rustic' is almost too generous a word. Sam can see the patchwork corners and steady craftsmanship where Dean has already done repairs, but the building is more disaster than not and he marvels for a moment at the kind of stubborn optimism necessary to think this place can be made whole.

He finds Dean asleep on top of a wrinkled sleeping bag, probably unintentionally unconscious. There's a leather-bound journal pressed beneath his cheek, and a pen lying close to his hand, the cap fallen off and rolled a couple feet away. Around him are duffels and flashlights, piles of carpentry supplies, but Sam's not paying any attention to those things. He's too busy standing transfixed by the peaceful unconsciousness softening Dean's features.

Sam has Dean pegged for his mid to late twenties, but lying here asleep he looks painfully young. Young and more than a little bit lost. His breath makes the pages of the journal shiver, chest rising and falling with each quiet gust, and the cut of sunlight through the windows catches the highlights in his hair.

Sam thought the man was beautiful before. Now he's _really_ doomed.

In the end he can't bring himself to disturb Dean's calm, easy sleep. He's intruding and he knows it, so Sam stands and turns to leave, keeping his steps light as he moves for the door.

"If that's pastrami I smell, you better not be walking away with it."

Sam's already got his hand on the doorknob, and the words stop him short and make him jump. When he turns around Dean is shifting slowly into a more upright position, blinking up at him with groggy eyes. The short spikes of his hair are smashed down on one side, and there's a straight sequence of creases pressed into his cheek from the journal. Sam grins despite himself at the sight.

"Figured sleep would do you more good than food."

"Fuck sleep," Dean mutters, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. "Food trumps sleep any day."

"Fair enough," says Sam. He flicks the switch by the door, figuring a little more light can't hurt, and is surprised when it does nothing.

"Sorry, no electricity," says Dean, watching almost warily as Sam shrugs and makes his way back to the camp-filled corner. Sam sits cross-legged and sets the plate of sandwiches right between them, smirking as he nudges the plate so it's closer to Dean. "Not that I'm complaining," says Dean, readily accepting the nonverbal command to take first pick. "But what'd I do to deserve my own personal chef in the middle of nowhere? You lonely or bored or what?"

"I like you," Sam says with a shrug. No reason to hide the ball. It is what it is. Sam's not going to beat around the bush, and if the answer is ambiguous then Dean is welcome to reach his own conclusions. Dean's got that look on his face again, like he's thinking too hard as he chews, but when he swallows his expression lightens.

"Just don't think this means I'm putting out," he says, and it's such a non sequitur that Sam laughs out loud. Not that he'd mind a chance to see what's under Dean's hood, but the tone of voice tells Sam that they both know that's not what this is. It warms a hopeful space in his chest, and rather than let himself blush, Sam coughs and tries to think of something else to say.

"So why no power?" he finally asks. "Wouldn't it be easier to do repairs with the electricity hooked up?"

If the looks Dean has given him before have been considering, then the look he levels on Sam now is downright pensive. Deep and thoughtful, like he's weighing the pros and cons of some enormous equation, chewing and swallowing one bite of sandwich after another without taking his eyes off of Sam. When he finally looks away, the sandwich is gone, and Sam is nearly aquiver with inexplicable nerves.

"All right," says Dean, voice a little too bright to be genuine. "Confession time. I don't really own this property. I'm just sort of borrowing it." Only 'borrowing' isn't really what he means, and Sam feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

"You're _squatting_?" he gasps, because somehow he didn't see that coming at all.

"Why not?" Dean says, shrugging too easily. "Not like anyone else is using it. I figured I'd fix the place up, stay here for a while and move on if someone shows up and takes issue."

"But…" Sam doesn't know why he's floundering so hard at the revelation. It's not moral outrage or anything as silly as that. It's abandoned property, why _not_ make use of it. But there's a curiosity burning in his chest that he can't quite put into words, and he asks, "But why here?"

There's that sadness again, muted but undeniable, and Sam wants to take the question back. Dean doesn't answer him for a long moment, quiet and considering.

"Because I've got nowhere else to go," he finally says, and the words break Sam's heart.

Sam's next words rush out of his mouth before he has a chance to think them through, but even as he hears them he thinks it's the most brilliant idea he's ever had. "You can come stay with me."

Dean blinks at him without responding, looking more confused than anything.

"I'm serious," says Sam. "I mean, I'm only going to be here for a few more weeks, but that's a few weeks you can have a bed, and electricity, and running water… Seriously, man, there are like three bedrooms in that cabin, not to mention the couch."

"You don't even know me," Dean protests, eyes wide and startled and a little bit wet.

"Yeah," says Sam, and it feels like a revelation. "Yeah, I really think I do."

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Having Dean close is as satisfying as Sam hoped it would be. For the next couple of days he wakes up to find Dean sitting at his kitchen table in the morning, bids Dean goodnight when it's finally too late to keep his eyes open, and drifts off with Dean's face the brightest, newest memory in his head. It's weird, maybe, being so instantly smitten with someone he barely knows. It's only been a matter of days.

But there's another part of Sam that has known Dean his whole life, or feels like it, and even if it might be madness to fall in love with a complete stranger in the middle of the woods, there's nothing wrong with a little harmless infatuation.

He forgets he has a housemate once and walks in on Dean in the shower, curtain not quite closed and transparent anyway, and it's a little awkward but mostly hilarious, and Dean stays in the shower long enough for Sam to have a little quality alone time in his room.

Dean's eyes are indecipherable at dinner that night, and Sam focuses on his food and does his best to keep his thoughts from venturing into distracting territory.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Sam knows it's a dream again, because it's another one he's had before. Not one of the worst, but bad enough, fire and terror and Dean's face covered in blood—a faceless man with yellow eyes standing there laughing. Sam wants to scream, wants to step in and tear the man apart, but he's as helpless now as he was the first time he saw this. Worse, even through the distracted haze of a dream sequence in progress, he _knows_ now. This really happened. His voice is nothing but wind as he calls Dean's name, and all he wants to do is make it stop.

" _Sam_!" comes a voice from somewhere closer, loud and panicked, and suddenly Sam is blinking his eyes open to darkness. The dream images fade, leaving the plain contours of wooden walls and smooth windows.

"Sam." Quieter this time, and Sam turns his head to follow the voice. Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping Sam's shoulders and eyes impossibly wide in the darkness.

"Sorry," Sam says, and his voice feels hoarse. Like maybe he's been screaming.

"Nightmare or vision?" Dean asks, shoulders tense.

"Both," Sam mutters, head pounding as he shifts upright to sit against the headboard. Dean shifts closer to follow him, keeping his hands steady on Sam's shoulders and apparently reluctant to let go. Sam shakes his head and says, "It wasn't a new one. It was… It… _Fuck_." He closes his eyes but that just makes it worse—the images worming their way stubbornly into his head—and he opens them again just as quickly. He's grateful that what he sees is Dean's face, clean and unbloodied. Whole. Sam reaches out with both hands, fingers sliding across Dean's brow, his jaw, his cheekbones. Touching to reassure.

Dean grunts in surprise when Sam pulls him in for a kiss.

"Please," Sam whispers against his lips, trying to urge Dean closer, to pull his whole body in so Sam can feel the tangible warmth, the unbroken limbs, the life beating in Dean's chest.

After an unsteady moment, Dean lets himself be guided closer, lets Sam kiss his way into his mouth, tongue touching and exploring. Sam's hand slips to the small of Dean's back to pull their bodies flush, and Dean lets him do that, too. Allowing and humoring, but not kissing back.

Sam finally pulls back with a groan, ending the kiss but not letting Dean go far. He keeps his hands on Dean's body, trying to read his face in the barely extant light from the window.

"Am I out of line?" Sam asks, voice soft with terror. "Dean, you've gotta tell me if I'm out of line."

And Dean's eyes, unreadable only moments before, soften into something different. Something warm and uncertain and a little bit dangerous that makes Sam's heartbeat stumble and hope.

Dean doesn't answer with words. He leans in slowly, broadcasting his intent, and Sam meets him halfway, captures his mouth in a kiss, and it's all eager intensity from both of them this time. Dean presses close, runs his fingers through the sleep-tousled mess of Sam's hair, and Sam moans and deepens the kiss. He wants more, wants closer still, and Dean's lips are soft and welcoming and perfect.

By the time Dean finally draws back with a soft, "Woah, okay, hold up," Sam's got one hand up beneath the fabric of his t-shirt and the other teasing along the waistline of Dean's boxers. Sam jerks his hands back, flushing and guilty at the thought of pushing too far.

"Fuck, sorry," he says.

"'S'okay," Dean reassures, and the smile on his face is wobbly but real. "Just… lie back down, okay?" Sam does as he's told, surprised when Dean crawls across him to get to the open space on the other side of the mattress, settling with his head against Sam's shoulder and one hand resting on his chest.

"This okay?" Dean asks, strangely hesitant—like he's afraid of making _Sam_ uncomfortable, and Sam gives a low, tired laugh.

"Yeah. More than okay," he says.

He wonders if he'll be able to sleep and isn't surprised when minutes stretch out and leave him just as wide awake as ever. It's not just the sensation of Dean warm and welcome against his side, distracting though that is. The dream has left him with questions. Some he doesn't want answers to and others he's desperate to understand.

"Dean," he says, knowing his companion isn't asleep either. "Why do I see these things?"

"How should I know?" But Dean's voice is too tense—nervous—and Sam doesn't want to fight.

"Please," he says, and his neck prickles as Dean sighs across his skin.

"You're special," Dean whispers, like if he says it quietly enough he's not really admitting anything. "Psychic. Your visions are tied to the Apocalypse and the demon that tried to bring it down."

"The yellow-eyed man," Sam realizes, connecting the dots laid out in a dozen different dreams. There's so much more here. Sam can feel it, and he knows he could get everything out of Dean if he asked. If Sam presses the issue, Dean will fess up to everything he knows.

But Sam's pretty sure he doesn't want the whole story just yet.

"Okay," Sam concedes. "So I'm a freak. And sometime you're going to have to explain to me just how you know all this. But the dreams have been gone for years. Ever since the Apocalypse _didn't_ happen. Why am I suddenly watching the reruns?"

"I think it's my fault," Dean admits. "I don't really know _how_ , but… I'm the only new element, right? You've started re-experiencing the old dreams since we became neighbors up here."

"I guess so."

"So it's probably me. I sort of spent a lot of time with the yellow-eyed son of a bitch."

"Oh," says Sam.

"Sorry," says Dean.

"S'okay," Sam mutters, because he figures the dreams for Dean is a pretty fair trade.

They do fall asleep eventually, reluctant drift and slowing breath, and this time Sam doesn't dream of fire.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Dean still insists on repairing the abandoned property, keeping his hands busy by day, and Sam gives him plenty of space—some instinct tells him that Dean needs those hours of distance and solitude. He reads and swims in the meantime, makes sure breakfast, lunch and dinner are rock-solid and regular when Dean wanders back down the hill.

Dean sleeps in his own bed despite Sam's welcoming hints, and that's fine. Sam can be patient, and he learns to wake silently from the visions-cum-nightmares. He feels them fading with time, just enough to feel less immediate, memories and shadows that even if he can't escape entirely, at least he can make them sit in a corner and stay there.

He hasn't looked at a calendar since he got here, but it's somewhere at the tail end of two weeks when he climbs out of the water onto the end of the dock and finds Dean sitting there with his feet dangling in the water. The weather is bright and gorgeous, sunny warmth that bakes the grass and glints off the water, and Sam doesn't bother trekking the length of the dock for the towel he left on the shore. He just flops onto his back beside Dean in an unceremonious sprawl of limbs, not apologetic in the slightest for the water that spills off his body and creeps along the wooden slats of the dock to seep into the denim of Dean's jeans.

Sam shifts to get more comfortable, his own legs dangling off the dock at the knees, and ignores the wet cling of his swim trunks as he folds his arms behind his head.

"How did you get into it?" Sam asks, hoping he's entitled to a little prying, and heartened when Dean turns to quirk an eyebrow at him. "Your whole warrior-against-the-Apocalypse thing," Sam clarifies. "The ghosts and monsters and stuff."

"It was the demon," Dean says. There's pain in his eyes as he says it, visible even through the squinting sun, but Sam realizes this is an older pain, dulled around the edges. "He took my mom… and my baby brother. Dad went a little nuts, learned what was out there and started hunting it. He raised me to do the same."

"I'm so sorry," Sam murmurs, not regretting his curiosity but wishing there were something he could do to help undo the sadness he sees in Dean's eyes.

"Yeah. Well. It was a long time ago. And we finally got the son of a bitch."

They lapse into silence, sun-warmed and comfortable. Sam has no idea what to say in response to this latest confession, but he doesn't want to change the subject. So he settles quiet to the sound of water lapping against the dock, closes his eyes against the bright, stabbing light of the sun. The air dries his skin slowly, and some ten minutes go by before he opens his eyes again.

He finds Dean's gaze drifting the length of his body, checking him out with unapologetic interest. The unapologetic stare transforms into a sheepish blush when he realizes Sam's eyes are open, but Dean doesn't look away just because Sam has caught him out. He holds eye contact like a stubborn challenge, and Sam lets a self-satisfied leer spread across his face.

"Don't go getting any ideas," says Dean, but there's something that might be a glint of mischief in his eyes. A bright curiosity, like he wants to figure out what Sam will do next. Sam props himself up on his elbows, and when Dean doesn't retreat, he sits the rest of the way up. Gauging.

"Ideas like this?" he asks, leaning in slowly enough for Dean to stop him—preferably without shoving him off the dock. But Dean _doesn't_ stop him. Dean rests his weight on one arm, angling up to accept the kiss, and Sam smiles as their lips touch, rests a hand along Dean's jaw to draw him closer, and knows that this time he needs more.

He's surprised at how easily Dean follows his guiding touch, directing him to lie back along the dock so that Sam can press against him, body to body, and kiss him again.

Dean doesn't just allow Sam's touch, he shifts further up the dock to make room, lets his legs fall aside for Sam to settle between them, and fuck, if Sam weren't already hard he'd be a goner now. Dean's lips are as soft as Sam remembers, mouth an open invitation that Sam happily accepts, and he moans as he finally settles his weight along Dean's body. Because yeah, Dean is hard, too, bulge obvious even through his jeans, and now that he knows they're both on board with this there's nothing to stop Sam from indulging in unrepentant friction, grinding their erections together through the fabric of their pants.

Dean groans, low and needy, and Sam stops kissing him to suck a possessive trail down the line of his throat. Dean groans even louder at that, and Sam sucks harder, worrying at the skin with his teeth, biting just hard enough to bruise, but he needs _more_.

"Can I?" he breathes against the damp skin beneath his lips, sliding a hand between their bodies, fingers tracing the muscled line of Dean's stomach beneath his t-shirt and stopping at the waistline of his jeans.

"God yes," says Dean, hips bucking in anticipation. "Fucking _touch_ me already."

There's no time for finesse, no time to get more decisively naked through the impatient thrum of need in Sam's head. There's only this, the soft snick of Dean's zipper and the slip of fabric against skin as he pulls Dean's pants and boxers down just enough to give him access, to let him wrap his hand around the firm, hot flesh of Dean's cock.

"Oh, _fuck_!" Dean gasps, and his legs wrap suddenly tight around Sam's hips, ankles a binding force pulling Sam closer, and Sam grunts and moans and wishes he had the focus to pull his own cock out, too, instead of being too distracted by the perfect weight of Dean's dick in his hand.

"Come on," he whispers, voice ragged and harshly commanding against Dean's ear. "For me, Dean, come on."

Dean orgasms on a wordless shout, come striping Sam's fingers and chest and the front of Dean's t-shirt. And maybe he should wait and let Dean give him a hand, but Sam's own cock won't be denied any longer so he reaches past the band of his swim trunks to pull it out, already pumping in hard, expedient strokes. He comes quickly, adding to the mess, collapsing across Dean's chest with a groan. If he were _truly_ a gentleman he would have twisted enough to land to the side, but Sam's not sure which side is more dock and which is nothing but open water, and he sure as hell doesn't have the brain power to work it out _now_ , so he drops where he is.

"God _damn_ , you're heavy," Dean complains, but his voice holds too much sated contentment for the annoyance to ring genuine.

Sam kisses him and smiles, finally figures out which direction to roll and not fall off of the dock.

He blinks at the blindingly blue sky and can't stop grinning.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Dean comes to him that night, long after the sun has disappeared and left the world to blackness. There's something in his silence as he climbs into bed beside Sam that says this isn't about sex, past or present-tense. Dean's whole form radiates a different sort of tension as he settles himself as close as he can get to the edge of the mattress with his back to Sam.

He doesn't protest when Sam slots in behind him, like their bodies were made to hold each other this way, and drapes his arm around Dean's stomach to pull him close. There are shivers shaking Dean's body, but they lessen as Sam holds him.

It takes Sam long minutes and a sequence of uneven breaths to realize that Dean is crying, and for a moment he's terrified that he's done something wrong.

But reason asserts itself quickly enough, and Sam wonders if this is the first Dean has really managed to mourn his father's death. He's had plenty of time to himself—Sam's made sure of that—but something in the stubborn, soft reluctance of Dean's tears tonight makes Sam think this is the first.

He doesn't call Dean on it. He just holds on tight and feigns sleep and pretends not to notice the tired red eyes as Dean disappears into the bathroom the next morning.

Dean is himself by daylight, stubborn and cheerful and bright as the sun.

At night he crawls into Sam's bed, and both of them pretend he doesn't cry, until eventually he crawls into Sam's bed and doesn't.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Sam wonders at first if the rules are different after their encounter on the dock. It's a bizarre courtship to begin with, and maybe the fact that he's seen Dean come isn't enough of a milestone. The last thing he wants is to send Dean running by pushing too hard for more.

Dean disabuses him of that particular worry quickly, touching Sam easily and often now that the dam has broken, and Sam welcomes every moment of contact.

He also welcomes the blowjobs that follow soon thereafter, and tries not to think jealous thoughts about what it means that Dean is so good at them. Sam's a novice by comparison, but Dean doesn't seem to mind.

Besides, everything Sam cooks seems to elicit the dirtiest, happiest noises from Dean's throat, so he figures he's pulling his own weight.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

Cara gives him a strange look when she and Jeff stop up with fresh vegetables and find Dean sitting in his kitchen.

"Aaaand who's this?" she asks, extending a hand in warm, albeit curious, greeting.

Sam does his best not to blush and says, "Uh, Cara, this is Dean Johnson. Dean, this is my sister Cara and her husband Jeffrey."

"Jeff," Jeff clarifies as he shakes Dean's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Dean."

The couple sticks around for a sunlit afternoon, and Cara shoots him questioning looks the entire time. Sam uses every ounce of his conniving will to make sure she doesn't get a chance to corner him alone, using his puppy eyes more than once to keep Dean from disappearing next door to do more repair work.

The sun is setting by the time they climb into their van to go, and Cara quirks a meaningful eyebrow at him and says, "You should call Mom. She'll _really_ want to talk to you." Which means Cara plans to make a call herself the second she has cell reception, letting Mom know about her son's mysterious new boyfriend, and if Sam doesn't want the wild theories to get out of control then he'd better provide some information himself.

"I will," he promises, though he might let the theories run a _little_ rampant first. He's got a feeling Dean's not the kind of guy to stick around long enough to meet the parents. Sam stubbornly ignores the hurt twinge in his gut at the thought.

Dean steps up beside him after the van has disappeared into the sunset-burnt forest, joining him on the wraparound porch.

"My last name's not really Johnson," he says.

"I figured," says Sam, though he couldn't put his finger on why.

"Aren't you going to ask me what it is?" Dean asks, half teasing but mostly concerned.

"You can tell me when you feel like it," says Sam with a deliberate shrug.

That night Dean carries his duffel into Sam's room and drops it by the side of the bed—a gesture Sam doesn't understand until Dean darts up his body for a kiss and says, "I want you to fuck me tonight."

"Really?" Sam asks, because hearing those words coming out of Dean's mouth, all rough and husky and hopeful, completely undermines his higher brain functions.

Dean sprawls across Sam's chest instead of answering, reaching over the edge of the bed to root around in his duffel. His eyebrows draw tight when he doesn't find what he's looking for. "Coulda sworn I had some stuff," he mutters to himself. "I mean, it was a long time ago, but not _that_ long. Fucking… ah- _ha_!"

And Sam is _really_ glad Dean found what he was looking for, because he's pretty sure there's no lube stashed in the bathroom cupboards, and after a lead-in like that it might have killed him to _not_ fuck Dean tonight.

He doesn't let himself feel nervous—so what if he's only done this a handful of times. That's enough to have half a clue what he's doing, and anyway Dean clearly knows how to make it work.

Dean keeps distracting Sam with his hands and his kisses and the light scrape of his teeth along Sam's throat, but eventually Sam's got Dean beneath him, Dean's legs wrapped around him, head thrown back on breathy gasps as Sam works him open with slick fingers, impatient to replace them with his dick.

"Enough," Dean groans. "Enough with the fingers, fuck, want your cock in me already."

Which is all the invitation Sam needs to line up and slide home, moaning aloud at the sensation of Dean's ass surrounding him, muscles working around him as Dean shifts to accommodate.

" _Fuck_ yes," Dean groans, arching against Sam in a lewd stretch that bares his throat and makes it impossible for Sam to hold still. Sam gives a groan of his own as he takes what Dean is offering, pumping his hips to a new, hard rhythm as Dean writhes beneath him and meets him halfway. The windows are open, and the air is silent but for the sounds of crickets, and Sam and Dean's gasping, groaning pants, heavy breaths echoing in uneven staccato.

Sam gasps Dean's name as he comes, swallows his own name from Dean's lips in a kiss, and falls asleep thinking that the world's not worth it if he can't have this.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

"Come with me when I leave," Sam says the next morning. They're still in bed, the sun nothing but a dust-filled beam through the open window, and maybe it's not fair to ambush Dean, but Sam will take every advantage he can get.

"I… what?" Dean asks, blinking in wide-eyed confusion.

"I'm going to Stanford in the fall," Sam clarifies. "Law school. I want you to come with me."

"Why?" Dean's face is a mask of uncertainty.

"You said you've got nowhere else to be," says Sam, pausing to kiss him on his startled mouth. "And I want you to be with me. I'm sure you can find something to fix in California."

Dean stares at him, trust and uncertainty warring in his eyes, and finally says, "Can I think about it for awhile?"

"Sure," says Sam, because ' _I'll think about it_ ' is more than he dared to hope for.

 

— - — - — - — - — - —

By the time Dean says yes, Sam has almost given up on ever getting an answer.

But Dean is finally looking at him, eyes bright and determined as his mouth says, "I'll go with you to California."

"Oh thank god," Sam breathes, but when he wraps Dean up in his arms, the man doesn't hug him back. "What's wrong?" Sam asks, stepping carefully away.

"Nothing," Dean is quick to reassure, and he follows Sam's retreat. Touches his face with a soft reverence that Sam finds disconcerting. "This is just… it's pretty big, is all. I'm going to be working it through for awhile."

' _What's to work through_?' Sam wants to ask. "I love you," he says instead.

Dean smiles, shaky but true, and leans up to press a kiss to Sam's mouth. It's not an answer in words, but Sam can hear it loud and clear. He doesn't expect Dean's voice to offer more confirmation than that, so he's surprised when Dean pulls back to speak.

"You, too," he says in a thick hush. "No matter what happens, okay? I love you so fucking much."

Sam stares into Dean's wide eyes, marveling at the heavy intensity he sees there. Suddenly he feels inadequate to respond. The moment is tense and weirdly expectant, and Sam's got about a million questions but no idea how to ask them.

Then Dean laughs, a soft, ragged sound that brings them back down to a steadier reality.

"Sorry, man," says Dean, running his fingers idly through Sam's hair. "Didn't mean to kill the mood." He's got a softer expression on his face now, warm and appreciative, and the look is already melting Sam to goo.

He darts in for another kiss, because Dean is _right there_ , and if they get carried away that just means dinner will be a little late today.

He drags Dean down to the dock at sunset, feels Dean's warmth against his side as they watch the sky shift through its burning glow of orange and pink and purple.

"I figured I'd be going stir crazy out here by now," Sam admits with a small smile. "But I'll be sad to leave."

"Me, too," says Dean, and they watch as the night settles slowly in.

 

— - — - — FIN — - — - —


End file.
